My First Restraining Order and The Warlock Yoga Instructor.

My First Restraining Order and The Warlock Yoga Instructor

By Janie Mo

She hailed from Wisconsin, a close talker and a loud talker— just a few warning signs I ignored before moving in with Channa, another sweet Craigslist roommate find who metamorphosed into a demon from hell. My room came without a door and I was told the landlord who crashed in a shack in the backyard may need to borrow our toilet on occasion, but at the time it still seemed like a good idea: I needed a place ASAP, the house was located in Glendale, CA, and as we all know, Glendale fucking rocks!!! You do the math. I didn't.

Channa was a 40-year-old 6’2” behemoth yoga instructor who had recently gone lesbian with a red haired beast named Patty. Although the way Channa went on and on about her son suggested she was into something else entirely. In her deep, raspy, drag queeny voice, she’d say, “Oh you have to meet my son. He looks just like Brad Pitt in Fight Club. Oh he’s so sexy! You really have to see him with his shirt off! I’m so horny!” Stuff like that. 

Shortly after I moved in, Channa began insisting I invite my friends over nightly, ostensibly so she could obsess over the boring minutia of her life to an audience. Channa was convinced that everyone either wanted to have sex with her or wanted to steal her awesomeness. “I’m one hot MILF”, "I can't believe Chad stole my ipod playlist!", and “My hair is so rad" were a few phrases she spewed on repeat. 

Newsflash: No one puts chunky red highlights in their hair anymore! That was never cool—except for maybe when that chick from Garbage did it, but that was it. On top of that, you wear yoga clothes 100% of the time. Cropped and flared spandex? How is that hot? And what’s up with your size 12 feet? Who even has those? Freaks. That’s who. You’re a not-hot freak with ugly hair. 

Okay fine whatever, so she was "super hot" and started all the trends. Big deal. I could live with that. But what about this hot trend? Every morning I found myself flushing her left behind poo down the toilet. Perfectly round, pitch black floaters—I’ve never seen their equal (well, maybe once, but I was really sick). Bobia Turds. Bobia is an appetizer served at an overrated white people Vietnamese restaurant in Los Angeles called Gingergrass. Bobia was all Channa ever ate and some days, talked about: “Bobia Bobia Bobia. Oh I love Bobia. You have to try the Bobia. You will be blown away by Bobia!”

I’m a flexible person, but having to do away with someone else’s doo doo brown on a daily basis? That’s some nefarious shit. Literally.

Or even hotter, how about the day Channa and Patty asked me to join in their tantric love-making? I came home from work and there on the living room floor was Channa nude on her back, legs up, in happy baby pose— taking a power fisting (in a caring, lesbian way, mind you) from Patty. Did either beast retreat in shame at my presence? No. They instead confidently beckoned me to “make love” with them. Um, I’ve only made love once and that was 10 years ago, in my dream, with Rick Astley (okay so it was 5 years ago. Fine! Yesterday). But God, what did they expect—for me to just heat up the quinoa, turn on some Indigo Girls, and spread?

Soon after I rejected the Lesbionic Duo, important things of mine started going missing: my mail (federal offense), shoes (I am not a size 12, hello!), and my baby buttwipes (should be a federal offense). Then one morning, the Bobia Turds really hit the fan (which incidentally I could not turn off because the string was missing). 

     “Jane. I need to speak with you. Jane.” Channa was standing outside my room, knocking on my frame. “It’s the 1^st, rent is due.” 

Bitch, can I eat my cereal first? Or, I don’t know, wake up? Ugh. Whatever, I wrote her a check and went to work. Then, later that evening, Channa accosted me in the kitchen with Crazy Eyes. If you have ever known a schizophrenic or bi-polar person intimately, then surely you have experienced the Crazy Eyes-- wide, dilated pupils--nearly black--and completely glazed over. Horrifying.

     “Your friends are not allowed in my home," she said as she intensely presented me with   an envelope, "they are flushing the toilet incessantly and my water bill is increasing.” 

Had the world gone mad? How much did a flush cost these days? 1 cent?

“It's your fucking turds,” I muttered opening the envelope, “that's the problem here”. And there it was: a 30-day notice to vacate. 

The rest is boring: I took her to court for stealing my rent, deposit money, and following me around the house and leering at me--which may sound extreme, but dude, she was like 8 feet tall, an ex-chemist, and don't forget about her crazeballs eyes. Oh yeah, and she threatened to poison me. At court, the baliff recognized Channa as “The Warlock Yoga Instructor,” before the judged slapped her with a restraining order. Channa completely lost her mind and ran out of the courtroom screaming, “SHE’S TRYING TO KILL ME! I'M AFRAID FOR MY LIFE!!!!" 

Accompanied by a Glendale Police escort, I went back to Channa’s sometime later to get the rest of my stuff. For whatever reason, I checked under the kitchen sink and found my missing belongings along with a handwritten note next to one of my shoes: 

Big Day!

Court.

Private with Rob Schneider at 3pm!

Eat Bobia!!!